User blog:Natalie Renderra/My attempt at an epic.
So, I had a recent school essay involving writing an epic styled after Beowulf. I set mine from the perspective of Scandinvians during the rise of Christianity in their area, using characters from the Frostshield Clans' history. While not fully converted to fit into 42, I figured it was worth posting in its raw state as a brief epic. Shields of black, Oak and Iron. The clan on the move to escape Cross-Bearers of the South, who dare Push their “Prince of Kings” upon Odin’s Loyal Sons. Vahlor Blackshield, The bane of the south, and Odin’s sword. Battle after battle was won in his name. Eventually, Vahlor was gifted a son, Harlor the Heavy. Harlor was even mightier Than his father, killing Rome’s Dogs And the foul demons that followed them. Harlor earned the name “Demon-Pummeller,” His battle-axe a blur as it bashed and broke The Horns of the Demon Slo’Dur, son of Hell’s Fury. Harlor took the horns, setting them into a helmet Feared by men and mer, black as the Raven’s feathers. Cross-bearers fled at the sight, and none ever Dared to face a Blackshield in Battle, Bruises, blood, and broken bones waited For the ones foolish enough to try. But even the greatest of men will lose That one battle that comes to all, Death itself took Harlor the Heavy, But Old Age left Harlor a young son, An heir to claim his mantle. Harlok, The man of ice, with a heart of fire. Harlok stood as a man would with A child on his shoulders. Tall, He was a wall of muscle to keep The South away. He wore a hammer To honor Thor, the Champion of Man, Around his own neck. His family’s black Shield was paired with gleaming, silvery Iron around the rim, and at the boss. With it was a trustworthy and durable spear, Solid oak, strengthened through what made men Mercilessly fall, oak turned hard by time’s tough Hands. The head of the spear, dark, flamed iron, Heated until it was a blue darker than the dimmest Of nights. Scaled armour of leather, covered With the fur of the mighty bear outside, and Steel plates on the inside. He wore the helm Of his father with pride, a show of his Lineage, what he had to live up to. But Harlok was destined for more. The call of action soon came. Those sworn to protect the tribe Were called forth from fields and Farms, to face a fearsome foe. The Frozen Dragon of Giants, Glacias Awoken from slumber by the smell Of the meat of man, foolish men of Rome moved, entering his cave. Awoken, they could not stop him, But the Beast did not settle for just The unworthy warriors of Rome. He roared to the skies, the summer Departing as winter quickly returned, Food freezing, and cattle cooling with Death’s chill upon them. The Blizzard’s Beast showed no remorse, Devouring every damnful bite of Loyal Northerners in its path. It’s Greed was unmatched. It’s gluttony Gave a gateway to gore unseen in Even the worst of battles. Men, Woman And Child fell to the Pet of Giants, The Mouth of Knives never dulling, Never needing sharpening. Harlok was ready and willing to Move on the challenge. He was Commited to his legacy, and his People. Spear and Shield in hand, He slew the best of his bulls, dragging Down the village road to deep in the Frozen fields, where Glacias glared at The warm meal it had missed. The beast Blasted through the air, landing on the Lifeless ground about him. Thirty feet Of fury, it was the Bear of Men who Stood proud that day, yelling so the Beast Of Blizzards knew he was there. Strong as Stone, Thor’s Champion raised his shield, Taking buffeting blasts of ice to his armour, Scars showing on the metal, until Glacias Halted his hailstorm, Harlok yelling to The sky itself, the Primal Scream Of ancients… As if he was burning, Harlok through his spear for Glacias As the cowardly dragon fled for the skies And the safety they gave. Glacias fell to the Ocean, the Frosted Fury falling to foam and water. Harlok Heavily heaved his lungs, each breath Making him feel flame in his chest. He soon swam after his foe, faster than a True serpent of the sea, to retrieve His spear, twisting it loose of the beast’s Chest as flesh flowed forth, a feast for fish. No more, would Glacias devour the muscle Of men, Nay, the Dragon was repaid by the Gods for his horrible hubris; no man faces A Frosted-Shield warrior and survives. Harlok’s return was granted well. His Chieftain named him “Frostshield” for His new shield, a heavy coat of ice Covering and cooling the old wood. Harlok soon bore three children. One Just as strong as he, another with the eyes Of an Eagle, and a third, intelligent with The magical might of priests. These, He says, not the death of Glacias, Were his greatest achievement. For The Frostshields now believe all they Inherit is not theirs to own, for they Merely borrow it from those not Yet brought into the world. Category:Blog posts